


The Silent Queen

by meowmeow3000



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Babies, Breastfeeding, F/M, Highgarden, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Murder and Intrigue, Original Character(s), Pregnancy, Quiet Isle, Some Fluff, the vale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowmeow3000/pseuds/meowmeow3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As winter sets in, Sansa Stark is faced with a change of circumstances. In truest fashion, she adapts. Winter is here and Sansa Stark is now a player in the game of thrones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time so I've decided to finally attempt and putting it into writing. Bear with me- I'm not exactly new to writing, but I'm not a pro at it either. Regular updates are quite unlikely, but I basically have the entire story all up in my head, it's just a matter of getting it out when I have the time. The rating may change depending on how it all comes out. Not to worry! Now that I've started it, I do intend to finish it.
> 
> The idea for this story was greatly influenced by The Hythrun Chronicles by Jennifer Fallon, particulary the Wolfblade Trilogy in that series- I highly recommend reading them!- as well as MANY other sansan fanfics out there and the art of kallielefdrawward on Tumblr and hedgehog-in-snow on DeviantArt so shout outs to them all and profuse thanks for their inspiring work. I may also have been indulging in the need for a good cry by reading everything under the SanSan Major Character Death AO3 tag when it first popped into my head...you've been warned. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF or HBO's Game of Thrones. I do not gain any profit from this story, nor would I ever seek to do so. All the credit for characters and setting can go to GRRM excepting, of course, any of my own original characters not actually in the books or series.

Sansa opened her eyes.

She closed them.

 _Take a deep breath_. _Exhale._

Sansa opened her eyes and surveyed the scene before her. She stared at the blank space where a moment ago a man had stood. An important man. _A player._

There was a sudden clatter on the ground just to her right. She startled and looked down. A dagger, valyrian steel, bloody to the hilt, rocked its last motions on the floor.

She swallowed and closed her eyes one more time before opening them and looking at the body behind and to her left.

Laying prone with his arms stretched wide as if to catch himself, her husband stared up unseeing at the ceiling with a small amount of what looked like shock left on his face. It was actually quite gruesome. His back had been broken. His limbs were at odd angles.

There were quite a few stains on his doublet from spilled wine. Some rouge on his collar. What could possibly be evidence of earlier activities drying near the laces of his breeches.

For someone having just killed a man Sansa felt quite detached from it all. She supposed the absence of her victim from her immediate vicinity could be the cause. _From my life._

But maybe something was wrong with her. She remembered how she felt for that girl in the riots, unable to do anything to defend herself, to help. _That was me. That was Sansa. I am Sansa. Sansa Stark._

She remembered a man who told her things. Scorned her naivety. _I am no longer that girl. And he is long gone._

She scanned her surroundings one last time. Took one last breath. On the exhale she remembered the moment.

 

* * *

 

Alayne Hardyng, wife to Harrold Hardyng, heir apparent to the Eyrie and the Vale, once Alayne Stone, natural-born daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Vale, had come down from the chambers she shared with her husband when she stepped upon a scene she was most certainly not meant to witness. In fact, those involved were not yet even aware of her presence.

She had come in search of her husband. It was past time he returned to their chambers, and although she was but a lucky bastard girl, meant to be a septa yet risen high above her station, and should have been quite grateful of his attentions and her good fortune for having become his wife, she had become quite perturbed he had not come to her yet this night.

You see they had an agreement. Her father had disclosed to Harrold before their marriage some special circumstances that made the match more valuable in his eyes. In turn, Harrold had come to her to seek her say. But what her father didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

Harry had pulled Alayne aside one night during a grand feast for the tourney held in his honor. He had whispered to her some of his misgivings during a dance and she had whispered back some of hers. They learned of each other. Learned secrets. And established that while the betrothal would go ahead, it would not be a marriage made in splendor, it would be a quiet affair. There were still greater matters to overcome before that final reveal.

And now with time passed, it had gone as planned. Her father would say differently, but Alayne had convinced him this way was better. And he had been pleased, for he had gotten something more out of it, and to him, a different plan was still in place.

But, in fact, Alayne’s father had not been home in quite some time. More than six months away to attend to matters in the Trident. It was the beginnings of winter and he had yet to visit the lands bestowed upon him.

_While father is away, the children will play._

Play they had, and not to his plan. Alayne was with her first child. Five months along according to the maester.

It was for this reason that Alayne had stepped out of her chambers and into the chilly halls of the Gates of the Moon. The baby had been kicking quite heavily and she couldn’t sleep. Alayne had resolved to find her husband so that he would come to bed, tuck her into his embrace and sooth their child, as he was so good at doing of late, so she could catch her rest before another busy day as mistress of the castle.

She had used the servants’ door instead of alerting the guards to her departure by walking through the only other entrance to her rooms. Anyways, she was far more likely to find her husband down here than in the grand empty hallways out there.

You see, that was the agreement. In taking her hand, Harrold had been free to continue his philandering ways, with the understanding that he would employ much better discretion than before he came to her bed and that at the end of the night he would always come back to her bed. Alayne had known his nature would not stop with their marriage, and so she endeavored to constrict his undesirable behavior to her terms.

In return for keeping their union unimportant and for waiting to reveal his greatest secret, Lord Petyr had been very appeased to learn his beautiful daughter would continue to satisfy his baser needs as she had been.

To an outsider the deal would seem a win-win situation for two quite satisfied men and a double loss for the poor, helpless, and manipulated girl. However Alayne was quite alright with it. In fact, she preferred it. She was in control.

But as pregnancy was wont to do she had been recently suffering its affects and with her father’s absence, her husband’s more amorous attentions of late, and her child’s constant movement, her patience had been worn quite thin. And so she set out in the dark of night, covered in only her nightclothes, to remove her husband from his latest kitchen wench and return him to their bed.

That was where it had gone quite wrong.

She had emerged into a darkened hall and had been surprised to hear the echoes of the voices of her father and husband in what seemed a heated debate. _Just ahead._ She had crept forward until she could see down a staircase, and there at the bottom, lay her husband.

_Dead._

Time stilled. Her baby had stopped moving. Her breath caught, and her heart stopped, too, just for a moment, while her eyes shifted instead to the figure hovering just above him.

Petyr Baelish was looking down on what he had done just as she was, but with grim satisfaction. His plan had been set in motion. With only one slight hiccup.

Alayne assessed.

Alayne calculated.

And time began again, in a blur.

She ran down the stairs and flung herself on her dead husband with a loud sob. Her father snatched her up. With the visible proof of her betrayal just starting to protrude from her middle, the hitch in his plan, he grabbed in fury at her and made as if to swipe the babe from her with his hands.

But Alayne was prepared.

_Armed._

Instead, before her father’s brutal hand could make contact with her body, her own hand made contact with his own frame, and in its grip─ her husband’s dagger. He grinned a bloody smile, and with the words, “Too late,” he yanked himself from her weapon and stumbled over to the window where he fell to the ice packed ground stories below amidst the broken glass from the pane he took with him.

 

* * *

 

Sansa closed her eyes to think.

She opened them. She picked up the dagger, walked over to her husband, placed it near his feet, smeared what little blood there was on her hands onto his, walked up the stairs, back through the halls and servants’ tunnels, continued past her own door, much further past, to the other side of the castle to her cousin’s door.

Sansa stopped and took a deep breath.

She quietly maneuvered the door open and slipped through the crack before tiptoeing up to the bed. Her cousin looked peaceful enough, so she sat on the edge of his bed. It had been hard on him the past few months, his dependency upon milk of the poppy had grown alarmingly in earlier months.

 _Littlefinger._  

But when her father had left, she and the maester had been weaning him off it. He was still very weak and even more prone to his fits, but Sansa was more confident in his health seeing as he was no longer being drugged into an early grave.

Her left hand brushed the hair out of his eyes, half surprised he had not already woken.

She stilled. He was cold. Words whispered through her mind. _Too late._

Her right hand gripped at her skirts and she squeezed her eyes shut just as tightly and made sense of it all. _Oh, my Sweetrobin._

She inhaled again, staggered out an exhale, leaned over to brush one last kiss on her cousin’s forehead, let a single tear drop to his cheek, stood, left the room with her skirts sweeping, went back again through the halls and servants’ tunnels to her room, and got in bed.

She laid on her side, rested a comforting hand on her stomach which was now mercifully still, and looked out beyond the bed hangings, thinking.

Sansa Stark exhaled a long-held breath.

She closed her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa left that very same week with nothing but a note for Myranda Royce to give to whomever she deemed appropriate to trust with its knowledge and encouraged her to also share her message with Mya Stone, so that she need not bear the burden alone. Before she had gone, she had made the preparations for Sweetrobin’s funeral and seen him into the ground. Even so, she had ensured that his burial would only be temporary; his final resting place would be in the Eyrie with his forefathers.

Throughout all the upheaval and decisions she felt the eyes on her. Menacing eyes, eye that saw her as an imposter, no matter that she carried their heir and only chance for renewal of an ancient and royal bloodline, the Kings of Mountain and Vale. But in the eyes of all who knew her, she was just the upstart bastard progeny of the hated Petyr Baelish, risen too high above her station in marriage, grasping for power under mysterious circumstances.

In spite of this, she knew they were torn- get rid of her and start over, with the rule of the Vale left to a power vacuum? She heard whispers of wishes for the Blackfish. _He would have known what to do_ , they said. _He could have ruled, for now at least._ Well, her great-uncle’s whereabouts were still unknown and Sansa wasn’t about to have any of the troubles that would come to her if she remained. Petyr and Harrold were dead and with them the only people who knew her true identity. She would not oust herself in the midst of political turmoil and her already precarious position.

So she left. Stole away in the night, alone and with just enough food to last for a while or so if she ate sparingly, she really had no idea how much it would all last, she had never been on her own before, someone had always looked out for her.

Her note to Randa detailed her true heritage and how she had become ensnared in Baelish’s plots and what she planned to do. She swore to raise her child with the intentions of returning them for rule in the Vale, but she would not subject herself to more power struggles when she could do something about it. She had power over herself now. Beyond that, she was lost.

She was alone. And it was a cold winter’s night when she left the Gates of the Moon and started towards the Bloody Gates, and went on her horse into the mountains in the stark moonlight with nothing but her rounded stomach for company.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was _warm._

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she had been so warm. Surely it had been years.

She struggled to open her eyes to recognize her surroundings. Everything was so hazy, she couldn’t remember really…just coldness. _So cold._

Then her brows wrinkled just slightly as realized that the cold had meant something more to her than just being cold. She jerked her arm and reached for her stomach to grab for her child, worried and hopeful that everything was alright. She was warm after all and that had to be good.

All her fingers encountered was air and an expanse that was much flatter than it should have been.

Sansa shot up, all her senses on high alert, suddenly her body could function, albeit it seemed as if it had been out of use for so long she was instantly dizzy. Nonetheless, her disorientation did not hide the person sitting at the table in a chair doing some sort of handiwork nor the fact that she no longer was with child.

“My baby-,” she barely managed to rasp out, panic darting her eyes about the room and moving her body restlessly towards the edge of the bed. “My baby!” But she was too weak and even the furs proved too heavy for her to push off and remove completely.

The man started and looked away from his task to her. He immediately came to her side and lightly pushed her shoulder, which she tried to resist, and then she was flat on the bed looking at him with beseeching eyes and heaving chest.

“Be calm, my lady, lest you open your stitches. Your son is doing well, considering-“

“Son?!” She gasped, “Tell me is he alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course, my lady!” He hastily reassured, “Only he is still quite a bit weak from the frostbite and lack of nutrition you were exposed to, but the Elder Brother says he should regain his health as you do.”

It was at this point that Sansa realized what she was seeing. This man telling her of her son was a brother of the faith, dressed in simply spun robes of brown dun, a little threadbare, but assuredly warm. She wondered where she was to have encountered such a man, and apparently another if the title he had spoken was any indication.

She let her eyes flit about her once again, this time assessing the room. It was plain, nearly Spartan, but seemed to be filled with many items one might see within a maester’s chambers, and a fire crackled merrily in the hearth, heating the room. The floor was dirt, a clear indication that she was on floor level, and that most likely she was in no inn, but one could never tell.

Her observations were interrupted by the brother.

“Milady, please, I will go and bring the Elder Brother and your son to you. But, please, you must not move and strain yourself.”

Sansa eyed him warily, certain that she should not be giving her trust as easily as he was asking for, but there was nothing she could do in any case, weak as she was, so she might as well let him think she was a complacent party to his wishes.

She nodded.

His eyes crinkled gladly and he shuffled out of the room with a hastily murmured 'milady' and a bobbed head.

She scoffed internally. _It is so easy to please men. Tell them you will do as they please and they…_ Her thoughts drifted off. _Milady._ The brother had called her his _lady._  Her thoughts whirled, her still befuddled mind struggled to catch up. _Why, why_ would he call her a lady, she had been a lone woman wandering frozen in the dark winter’s forest last she remembered. _There was no way he could know._ Still, her breath was catching in her throat and her heart felt as if it would beat out of her chest.

No matter that she was apparently in the care and presence of these other people, she was alone and defenseless and her son had been taken from her. For all she knew her identity had somehow been compromised and she was now a captive of the Faith.

She was struggling to draw up contingency plans as the seconds passed. All she could truly focus on was her son. Her own personal safety negated as long as that of her child’s was still in the balance.

Then the door creaked opened. Another man appeared, pushing the door open with his back, a securely wrapped bundle in his arms.

Sansa lurched up from her place on the bed again and the man shushed her. He came quickly once he was free of the door and immediately settled down on her bedside and proceeded to offer the bundle in his arms to her.

Her concerns momentarily forgotten, she nearly grabbed the bundle from him, greedily taking her son into her arms. Her son’s face peeked out at her. His eyes were closed and his lips pursed as if searching for something in his sleep, making motions as if he were sucking on something.

“He has needed his mother these past few days,” this new brother said, she glanced up at him, his face was kindly, _Days?,_ she thought fretfully and returned her gaze back to the angelic face before her.

With her left arm firmly supporting her son, her right hand tentatively reached up to stroke down the blankets by her sons head. Sparse hairs peaked out at her- baby blond, with just a hint of her own red.

She felt the greatest contentment, sitting there, gazing at him, taking it all in. _I have a son, a beautiful baby boy_. She allowed a small smile to come across her face.

For just that one, beautiful moment, all was right in her world. It was perfect.

She barely noticed the brother stand from her bed and move silently towards the door, she barely noticed anything at all, for just at the moment something else happened. Her son opened his eyes.

They were blue, the clear blue of a new born babe, untarnished by the effects of the world. They were not her blue though, like her mother’s Tully blue, and Sansa thought perhaps they would shift in the coming months, as she recalled her mother had once told had happened with Arya’s eyes. She took a deep breath. _I will not linger on those thoughts._

As it was she was so engrossed she had not noticed that the retreating form of who she understood to be the Elder Brother, whoever that was, was at once replaced with the form of another, larger, but still in that same home-spun brown dun that she had now seen on two men in her presence.

Her boy started to shift in her arms, and eager to begin her task as a new mother, and after seeing the way her son had been searching for her nipple with his mouth, she hastily shifted, reaching to let down the top lace of the bedgown she seemed to have acquired. _Yet another curious thing with no time to think about_.

She released her breast and brought her son up to her nipple, eager to prove to herself that this was real, that she was here, and her son, too. He struggled a bit and whined, but then as if by magic he calmed and found her nipple. There was a tug and it was uncomfortable, but Sansa relished the sensation.

 _I am a mother. I have a son. I did it!_  Words could not describe the elation she felt in that moment and she smiled without reserve for the first time in the longest time she could remember down at her son as he took from her what he needed most. And felt love. So, so much love for this tiny bundle in her arms that her eyes teared up and some tears dripped down her still smiling cheeks.

But then, the shadow attached from the wall, removed itself and came towards her and she was startled out of her reverie.

Where the other two men had been well lit from the fire in the hearth this man had taken up his hood and his visage remained shrouded, his form much larger than the other men as well and much more fierce and imposing.

But the voice that came from this sudden figure was no dark and dangerous stranger.

“What have you done, little bird?,” a hoarse voice rasped out. And instantly Sansa knew she was no longer alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've done a double chapter update tonight because chapter 2 was all filler and it really wasn't a lot at all, but more importantly because I am trying to change the style of my writing for this story and wanted it to be more evident. I'm going to be focusing more heavily on action and dialogue whereas before it was my more usual style which is kind of abstract I think and doesn't really get the point across in the way I want it to for the story. However, for the beginning of the story it worked well enough because in my mind, Sansa wasn't all there, she was kind of going through the motions, in shock, and remembering various details that led her to this point. Hopefully now I'll be able to switch over, and while I think it will be a little more challenging for me personally, I know that this is the way I want to go and the way it needs to go in order for everything that's in my brain to come out the way I want it to.  
> Maybe this helps explain some things if it wasn't quite clear in the chapters before?  
> But anywhos, I've lots more planned. TTFN!


	4. Chapter 4

For the past three days, nearly four, Sandor Clegane had been in a state of perpetual shock. Just before sundown three days before, one of the brothers had come riding back after a short hunting excursion off the isle with a more burdensome load than anyone in the brotherhood would have ever expected, small game being the usual prey captured on such hunts.

Sandor had been digging a grave, as was his usual task, when he saw the man approaching from across the mudflats and quicksand exposed from the low tide.

He had laid down his shovel and approached the brother, curious to what he had brought back. It was obviously not large enough to be a buck, and shadowcats were rare this far south from the mountains in the Vale.

What he had not been expecting to find was a woman, half-starved and emaciated. Nor had he expected for that woman to be Sansa Stark with a newborn babe clutched tightly to her chest in her delirium. He had been so shocked when her face had been revealed from under the matted nest of brownish hair that he had nearly lost his hold on her while he was easing her off the horse.

After that, everything had seemed to go so quickly. Other brothers had arrived, and swiftly took her battered and dying body inside, the babe still stoutly tucked in her arms. He had followed in somewhat of a daze, and he vaguely recalled being set to tasks and following his orders, but it was as if he was only going through the motions as his mind was miles away.

And, truly, it was. He was remembering everything. The night on the Blackwater, how he had gone to her room and threatened for a song, and how she had not come with him. His terror over learning her fate─ married to the Imp. How he had gotten piss-blind drunk and then the fight with Polliver and the Tickler and that squire and his subsequent injury. His delirium and the little wolf bitch refusing to kill him, even after everything he had said about Sansa. His recovery on the Quiet Isle and his penitence, all the while regretting his words and actions to the little bird. Learning of her disappearance and supposed murder of the King.

And until that day, three days ago, he had thought he would never see her again. Suddenly redemption was so much closer. She was here. With a squalling brat to boot, but he would take whatever the gods saw fit to give him.

Somehow it had fallen to him take care of the babe as brothers more experienced in the craft of healing looked after the little bird. She had been nearly blue with the cold, wrapping nearly all her extra winter layers around the babe, who for all intents and purposes seemed to be fine with the exception of having just been born and thusly being up at all hours of the day and night demanding milk from his mother who was unable to give it. Sandor knew fuck all about taking care of a baby, but it seemed everyone else thought it was perfectly normal for it to be his task. He was seriously questioning the state of mind of his brothers.  

The brother who had found her while hunting had broken his vow of silence to say that there had been blood and other signs of the birth just where he had found her, huddling at the bottom of a trunk with the babe wrapped tight and wailing, but that she had been too weak to respond.

It seemed to Sandor a miracle either of them had survived.

The Elder Brother had been watching him closely since she had arrived, he seemed to be the only other on the isle aware of her identity though the brothers had all been treting her like royalty. Sandor could care less however, his little bird was here and she needed him, and now so did her son. He would not fail her this time.

* * *

When the Elder Brother had come for the boy and told him that Sansa was finally awake, Sandor found his nerves suddenly shot to the seven hells. It was all he could do to follow sedately behind the Elder Brother and not sprint to her rooms and demand to know what had happened that she turned up alone and stranded in the winter wilderness giving birth to a child. But he had hung back, watching in wonder as she naturally took to her child, but was still guarded in the Presence of the Elder Brother and her confusion as to where she was and how she got there, whether or not she was safe. But then the Elder Brother was gone and in the next moment he was moving towards her like she was the earth and he was bound by gravity. And then she was looking right at him and he could not stop the words that escaped his mouth.

“What have you done, little bird?” He winced. That was surely much harsher than she deserved to hear from him. But her reaction was not one of anger or indignation or fear, it was the widest smile he had ever seen on her face. It knocked the breath from him and he sank to his knees beside her.

She reached a hand out towards him and pushed back his hood, he had never felt so exposed in his life. Her smile still stretched across her face while her eyes roamed over corner of his distorted visage. She cupped his cheek, his mangled side, and whispered as tears came to her eyes and her lips trembled.

“I had thought you dead.” She gasped in a ragged breath. “You cannot know how wonderful it is for me to see your face at this moment.”

Sandor was completely bewildered.  _The l_ _ittle bird must further gone than we thought, thinking she wants to see me of all people_. But even though he wanted to contest her words, he could not push the words past his tongue. All he could do was kneel there at her side and drink her in, like a man in a desert without water for far too long.

“Please, tell me, what has happened since I came here? How was I found? Who knows of my presence here?” She gave a small huff of laughter and looked down at the babe suckling at her breast. “I do not even know where I am how or I came to be here. Or how he did either for that matter.”

Sandor cleared his throat, but it rasped nonetheless. “A brother came back from a hunting trip early with you and the babe clutched in your arms. He indicated that it seemed you had just given birth in the wild, you weren’t even conscious for the return trip.”

Sansa took her eyes off of him and turned them to her son in worry. They seemed to contain all the love in the world. He paused, still taking in the sight of her caused him to catch his breath.

“This is the Quiet Isle. A brotherhood of the Seven resides here. It’s just down from the mouth of the Trident in the Bay of Crabs, southeast of Saltpans…” he trailed off.

They descended into silence for some time. She watched her child, he watched her. The babe seemed finished suckling at her teat. She fiddled about with his wrappings, replaced her robe, and settled him in arms again. She traced a delicate over his features in reverence. The babe had nearly immediately fallen asleep. Sandor had never seen him this calm. It was somewhat of a relief.

He pressed on through the silence, “Little bird, what happened to you? Where have you been hiding?”

She lifted her eyes to his. They were unexpectedly icy, but he did not back down from his line of questioning. He gazed down at the wispy blonde hairs of the child and gulped back a disgusted grimace. “Where is your lord husband, the Imp?”

She scoffed and turned away from him. “How should I know? I haven’t seen him since Joffrey’s wedding, I am quite unperturbed over finding out where he is,” she replied snootily.

His eyes widened, that was unexpected. The wedding was going on three years ago. His eyes started clouding over as he grew into a rage, stood, and started pacing. “Then whose is that?!,” Gesturing with a rough jab at the babe. “I will kill the filthy rapist who dared─”

Sansa silenced him with a glare. “I was _not_ raped!” He halted and turned to face her declaration. “My son is my husband’s trueborn son and rightful heir to the Vale. I will not have you thinking anything to the contrary.”

The pronouncement truly lost him. “Heir to the Vale? What on earth are you talking about, little bird? The Imp’s been exiled and even so, he was never going to give you the Vale. And if you’ve not seen him how can he be your husband’s son?!”

She tucked her face away from him again and gave a pout at her son. “It’s true,” she said in a soft voice as she rocked the babe side to side. “I swear it. And I won’t have it taken away from him.”

“Little bird...” he trailed off.

Sandor was at a loss of what to say to her, she was clearly confused. Who knew what traumatic event had happened to put her in this place. The brothers only knew the hardships she had gone through since finding her in the woods.

Her voice cut through the sudden, heavy silence. “I was in the Vale.” She paused, and seemed to steel herself. “I left the night of the wedding with Ser Dontos. But he was just working for Petyr. He took me to the Eyrie where my Aunt was and they hid me as Petyr's bastard daughter. But Aunt Lysa saw Petyr kiss me and tried to push me out the Moon Door and then Petyr pushed her out. We went down to the Gates of the Moon when winter came and Petyr had me married to Harrold Hardyng, but he expected it to stay a marriage in name only until such a time as we could prove Tyrion’s death and reveal my true identity, it was a part of our terms. But when he left for Harrenhal, Harry didn’t want to wait anymore and I didn’t want Petyr to take my maidenhead so we became husband and wife anyways. When Petyr came back before we expected, he went insane. He attacked Harry when he found out I was with child and threw him from the stairs. He nearly killed me, too, but I stabbed him and he threw himself out a window. Except he had already poisoned Sweetrobin. I stayed only long enough to see my cousin into the ground before I left.”

Again, silence descended between them as he processed what she said.

“You just left?! Ha! The little bird just decided to fly away! Where was your escort when you were found?”

“I did not have an escort. I left by myself.”

Sandor gaped at her.

She rushed to defend herself, “I had no one who knew my identity and no one I could trust with it. I have more than just myself to think about now. I can’t keep letting people control my fate. I left a note for Myranda Royce, so she knows, but nobody in the Vale will be able to touch my son until I give them leave to do so. If they want their heir, they will stay out of my affairs and concern themselves with their own for a while. Winter is here and they have better things to concern themselves with than who has Sansa Stark.”

Her chin was jutted out as she proclaimed this, making her obstinacy on the matter known. Sandor couldn’t believe it. She had just walked out of the Gates of the Moon into the mountains and vales alone─ _What had she been thinking?!_ Elder Brother had received news of the triad of deaths in the Vale and the missing Alayne Stone girl nearly three moons ago, and by then the news had probably been weeks or possibly even months old. To think that she had been out in the wilderness and with child all this time sent chills down his spine.

He walked over to the bed and collapsed onto the end, putting his head in his hands. He did not know what to say to her. It seemed the little bird had grown some claws.

Sansa readjusted in her seat and the babe squirmed in her arms. He tilted his head to look at them. She met his gaze with a shy smile.

“I think I will name him Ronnel, after the last king of Mountains and Vale. He will keep the Arryn name and continue a long line of heritage.”

“Little bird─” He paused, unsure of his wording. “He can’t keep the Arryn name. He may be Hardyng’s son, but you are still married to the Imp. He is bastard born.”

“No,” she insisted strongly. “Tyrion and I were never properly married. He did not take me to our marriage bed and I was forced. It was not a valid marriage and I will not have any Lannister thinking they have any sort of claim upon Winterfell and the North. Petyr forced Harry on me, too, and took little Robert from me. And I will not have yet another great house of Westeros decimated and lost to time because of Petyr’s manipulations.”

Sandor stared at her in disbelief. He was truly having difficulties following this conversation. So much of what he thought he knew was changing.

As he sat there contemplating this new reality, Sansa returned to adoring her son.

“Ronnel Arryn,” she breathed and stroked his downy head.

They stayed in these poses for nigh on an hour, Sansa fussing over her newborn, Sandor assembling his thoughts and watching them both, until she suddenly looked up into his eyes.

“Will you still keep me safe? If I asked you, would you take me away and never let anyone harm me?”

Sandor eyes widened and his heart nearly stopped. Time seemed to still.

“Yes. Yes, little bird, I would.”

She gave a soft smile and looked back to Ronnel. And for now she seemed content. Happier than he thought he had ever seen her after the death of her direwolf and the all the tragedies that had happened since. He thought that perhaps he was too. 


	5. Chapter 5

She waited over a year at the Quiet Isle before slipping away again into the night. This time though she had two companions, her son and Sandor Clegane. To the rest of the world they seemed only weary travelers, wandering from settlement to settlement in the depths of winter without a permanent home, as it was for many displaced refugees from the War of the Five Kings. Villages were not willing to accommodate new people into their society, food and shelter being scarce as it was and no one knowing when the winter would end.

When they left, winter was starting its second year. When they finally reached their destination, it was well into the third.

* * *

They appeared at the gates to Highgarden seemingly quiet suddenly. Truthfully, the guards had been somewhat lax on their duties, as at this point the seven kingdoms had settled down and retreated back to their seats to wait out winter before resuming their quarrels. And so it was that the Hound and Sansa Stark appeared at the gates of Highgarden with naught but the cloaks on their backs and a fearsome horse with a large bundle on its back as if by magic.

The Lady Sansa haughtily demanded entrance and to be taken immediately before Lord Willas to break salt and bread with him.

He awaited her in his solar and was surprised to see she had not left her doubtful retainer behind for their meeting. Willas noted the Hound carried a bundle in his arms and thought it quite odd a servant had not relieved him of his burden, whatever it was.

He bowed to her awkwardly over the table, leaning heavily on his cane- his leg had been terribly stiff in the unending cold. She curtsied and strode towards him and to the proffered bread and salt and said not a word until she had finished her roll. She then raised her gaze to him and he felt as if all the ice of winter had blast through him. When she did nothing more but raise one delicate eyebrow at him, he hastily grabbed his own roll and took a bite, finishing the ritual of hospitality while recognizing its significance for her. When he had finished she sat down in the chair afforded to her and he followed suit, easing his leg out from under him. He stole another glance at the Hound who had not moved.

“Lady Sansa.” He left it simple, he was unsure how to address her, let alone what topic of conversation he should pursue with her. So far, he found her to be very unlike the vague and shallow descriptions he had received from his sister and grandmother in their letters years ago. He supposed winter and the war had changed her.

“Lord Willas,” she returned after a pause.

They lapsed into silence.

He cleared his throat. “I am gladdened to see you have indeed survived from King’s Landing and the winter. My sister spoke most highly of you when you were in her acquaintance.”

“Yes.”

Silence again.

“Might I enquire how you arrived here? You took my men quite by surprise.”

“It was not too difficult, I assure you. But neither was it purposefully done.” She seemed serene in her conversation, he felt stilted.

Her head turned as the Hound shifted his arms and she beckoned him closer. Only when he leaned over and she took the bundle from his arms did he realize it was a child. She whispered some words that he did not quite catch in his shock to a boy who had seemingly just woken up. However his attention was quickly won as a small voice made itself know.

“Hello.”

The child’s face was cherubic, shockingly round for the rampant starvation ravaging the countryside, even the larger keeps felt it and rations had been in strict enforcement throughout the lands. He seemed to be about two to Willas’ eyes but the shock of strawberry-blonde hair negated his initial assumption the boy could possibly be the Hound’s.

“My name is Ronnel Arryn. I am pleased to meet you.” Willas was further amazed by the boy's introduction. He had a firm grasp of his language for one so young. But what further astounded him was his identity. He had heard of the Vale’s tragedy, the young lord, heir and lord protector all killed and the missing daughter-wife, the stories varied, presumed dead in the snows. The more confusing news had been the Vale’s distinct lack of naming a new ruling family since those dark tidings. The whole kingdom had been baffled.

The boy looked up at his mother who bestowed upon him a loving smile. “Roll, please?”

“Yes, my darling boy, you may have a roll now,” And she plucked one from the basket and handed it to him.

He munched away happily; it seemed the boy's talents only went as far as his presentation.

Lady Sansa lifted her head back up and met his questioning stare.

“He is the rightful heir to the Vale, born of my union with Harrold Hardyng. I was masquerading under the name Alayne Stone at the time.”

“I see,” Willas said. But really he did not see, she was the missing bastard girl? How had she escaped King’s Landing? Had she really had a hand in killing Joffrey? How had she been married? And why was she here now?

She must have seen his hesitance in his eyes for she gave a secret smile, but she did not answer his unasked questions.

“Before I was married to Lord Tyrion, there were arrangements made for me to come here and marry you, Lord Willas. Were you made aware of these plans?”

“Yes, yes I was. It was all quite abrupt, but I was quite eager at the time-”

“And now you are not?,” she returned sharply.

“No, no! Not at all, Lady Sansa! It is just that with winter and the great upheavals in the realm before winter settled that it has not been on my mind of late.”

“Good.” Lady Sansa eyed him critically. “I would like to renew negotiations of that alliance, Lord Willas. This will be a long winter, and it would be better put to use forging a peace where you are greatly benefitted than waiting for spring to come to see if there will be more war.”

Truly, Willas did not know what to say to that. This woman showed herself at his castle with nary a word known about her fate for years and asks for a marriage!

But the more he thought on it the more advantageous her proposal began to appear. Willas took his time responding to her, she did not at all seem bothered by it. She occupied herself with the boy, who he noted would be quite a complication. But if the silence from the Vale and her straightforwardness were any indications, she had him well in hand.

His eyes drifted over the large hulking presence of the Hound just over her shoulder. An even more curious member to her small group. _A concerning member…_

He brought his gaze back to her. “And if I were to be agreeable towards our union?”

“Well, then, shall we get started with the negotiations?”

Willas leaned back in his chair. _She’s quite sure of herself, this one._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the title from "Of Lords and a Lady" to "The Silent Queen" because I just wasn't really digging it before. But I'm not sure if the title is still what I want, if what it means to me is being conveyed. By Silent I mean something more along the lines of hidden/concealed/behind the scenes/unrecognized/puppet-master type stuff. But nothing really fit overly well so I went with Silent. I'd love to have feedback about how you feel about it or any alternate ideas!

The Lady Sansa sat quietly on the hanging swing in the courtyard outside her rooms in Highgarden. She cupped her rounded belly with a hand as she swayed, gazing upon her two children playing in the lightly falling snow with a small and content smile. The winter weather had been less harsh this last week and she had been glad to get the two restless little boys outside for some fun and exercise.

Her other arm was wrapped around the rope holding her swing and she leaned her head upon it. Ronnel and Gavyn were building a snowsteed with the wet flakes and old drifts. It was a heartwarming sight. The boys didn’t quite know what a snowsteed was supposed to look like. They did what they could with their mother’s description of the tall, horse-like creatures with antlers like a deer, but still were larger and rounded, with shaggy fur. What they made was quite short in stature and in truth resembled a sheep long overdue to be shorn with long prongs spouting from its head.

Their giggles, smiles, and rosy cheeks overrode any care of hers to correct their efforts. Ronnel, fast approaching his sixth nameday was playing the older brother well, aiding the toddling Gawyn, nearly two and a half, by showing him how to pack the snow together and where to put it on their masterpiece.

They were the only people in the courtyard; many of the court at Highgarden had no love for winter and were less keen to spend time out of doors when they could weather the season in fire-warmed solars. Perhaps there were men at arms training by the stables or others may be wandering through the many courtyards and gardens in the castle, but here, Sansa and her children had their solitude.

Ronnel tossed down a glove to push off the fur-covered hood of his cloak from his head. His blond hair was matted to his head, his cheeks rosy from the cold. His eyes glinted victoriously as he turned his head to her.

“Mother! Come look!” He shouted.

“Yes, alright, my darling. Give me a moment,” Sansa answered her eldest as she heaved herself up by the ropes. She then took quick but careful steps over the icy path towards the clearing where the snowsteed was standing. Her feet kicked up snow as she neared and her youngest ran around the sculpture to better greet her. He nearly careened into her legs, but she kept her balance, and he continued to hold onto her skirts.

She leaned down a ways to brush the downy, brown curls from his eyes. “Gavyn,” She softly entreated, “Would you please help me sit down near your gentle mount?”

His tinkling laughter filled the area and echoed off the marble pillars as his arms came up to hold her hands. Sansa then lowered herself to the snow, mindful of her belly, and after releasing her sons helping hands, smoothed her skirts out around her and assumed a comfortable position.

“Thank you, my love, you are ever so gallant.”

“Yes, mother!” He piped proudly. “Father has been teaching us about knights and knights always help pretty ladies!”

“Why you’re right, they do! You must nearly be a knight yourself.” She responded and in turn earned a wide grin.

“Now, Ronnel, Gavyn, tell me about your snowsteed. Have you named him?” And off her children went, talking about all the wonderful things their snowsteed could do, showing her special parts of his body they made, and all the little things children find important to add when they make themselves a friend. She smiled indulgently as each one spoke to her, nodding along patiently as they explained their creation.

She stayed in the snow with them for some moments more. Time seemed to not move at all, but when she heard heavy footsteps approach and she looked up from her sons, the cloud covered sky had already darkened considerably.

Sandor was looking at her like she was a madwoman and quickly approaching; she could tell he had a lecture in store for her already. When the boys finally noticed him coming, they shouted their greetings and ran towards him, circling his legs, pulling his arms in order to be lifted, and generally tripping him up and slowing his progress towards her.

His disposition was noticeably calmer when he was finally able to extend a hand towards her and help her up from the snowy, frozen ground.

“My lady,” he started softly, if gruffly. Her twinkling eyes at his courtesy snapped him out of his momentary nicety. “You should not be exposing yourself on the ground like so, you know this,” he finished much more brusquely.

Instead of replying she held out her hands with a grin and he helped her up though she could see him roll his eyes. “Oh, but Ser, you know how I love the snow. I feel as if this little one loves it even more than I or his brothers,” she teased. 

“You don’t know that,” he shot back, tucking her arm in his elbow. “Off to the maester with you boys. It’s time for your lessons.”

Ronnel and Gavyn protested, but their complaints were not heard and soon, they were racing to the hall, away from the courtyard where their mother and their family's sworn shield stood. Gavyn’s little legs could not keep up with his brother’s and he stumbled in the high snow, but when Ronnel looked back, he came bounding over to his brother’s aid and they went hand in hand inside, sure to come across a maid or guard to help them change out of their wet, bundled, and snowy clothes and escort them as they went off to the maester.

Sansa watched them go, trailing along behind them next to her shield, who was steering her towards the warmth of the entryway as well. However she decided she wasn’t quite ready to go back indoors, and detached herself from him swiftly, and before he could grab her again, went back to her swing.

“Sansa,” he sighed softly. She could barely hear it, even over the deadened quiet of the light snowfall. He paused, but followed her, and when he finally was in front of her, he kneeled down, and held her hips lightly to stop her swaying.

Both her name and his touch, so familiar, were overt intimacies they could not ordinarily be afforded. But she did not discourage him, they were so rare as it was, and she was secure in the knowledge of their privacy. His right hand petted her hip once or twice, as if to smooth the fabric of her dress before coming around to rest on her stomach. At the same time, she reached out and smoothed back the hair he insisted on combing over his scars, and revealed his worst to her gaze. He glanced up, his eyes locking with hers for just a moment, and she knew his exasperation at her for not allowing him to hide even the slightest bit of himself from her.

Then he leaned in to press a kiss against her belly before leaning back on himself enough to rest his chin on her knee. Her hand drifted down his left arm before twining her fingers with his at her hip. They stayed there, as if locked in the moment, she swayed only with the movement of their breaths, and time seemed to stand still. She closed her eyes and savored it.

It seemed to her forever ago that they had arrived at Highgarden and she had been able to strike an accord with Willas. Gavyn was a testament to how short it had been, not yet four full years in Highgarden. It seemed even longer to when it had just been her and Sandor and Ronnel. Their journey had been long and hard, but they had endured. She missed those simple days, where his biggest worry had been whether they would make it to a village or inn before nightfall, or if they should leave and continue on and risk a storm once they had found one, and her's the warmth  and health of her son and therefore getting herself enough food to be healthy enough to feed him. Despite the stress of those circumstances, there were many cherished memories, bright in her mind. The time Ronnel had started to crawl, and when she had started to teach him how to speak, all of which where Sandor was an ever-present form lingering by her side.

Sandor had always taken a very protective stance when it came to Ronnel, and during their journey he had helped her with the responsibility of a newborn child greatly. When they had arrived in Highgarden, propriety had forced him to take more distance in his dealings with herself and her son. Her husband’s family had been very suspicious of her sudden appearance with the infamous Mad Dog of Saltpans, the Lannister’s Hound, and had been put off by the haste and the privacy of the negotiations in which she and Willas had made the terms of their marriage. She was on pleasant enough footing with her husband, but she suspected his relatives were wary of her possible knowledge of any of their own dubious actions she may have been witness to in the capital, and still her hands were not completely bloodless either with various rumors circling the realm linked to her.

And when Gavyn had been born she had worried that Ronnel would feel abandoned both by her, as she could no longer give her undivided attention to him, and Sandor, who had once been his constant companion, but who now as the three of them were thrust into this new, whirlwind world of castles and lords he had seen less and less. Only two nights after Gavyn’s birth, she had woken to muffled giggles and soft footsteps in her room and had seen the silhouettes of two of the most important people in her life leaning over the crib just at the side of her bed. She had shared one of the happiest nights of her life, staying awake past the hour of the wolf showing her firstborn his new baby brother and marveling in all of his tiny features and telling fantastical tales and songs with one son in her arms, the other in her lap, and Sandor at her back, sitting on the bed with and arm around her shoulders, looking over her shoulder at the happy scene.

Her heart panged with an ache for those simpler times.

Sandor shifted and she opened her eyes. He grabbed the ropes of her swing to heave himself up from the snowy ground, his bad leg still bothering him after all these years. He presented her his hands, but she only looked up at him, deeply, longingly. He met her gaze but did not change his stance.

Finally, she broke her gaze and placed her hands lightly in his and stood up with his help. But she did not let him step away, and instead came closer, her nose brushing against his firs at the middle of his chest, and let her hands rest at either side of her head, breathing in his heady scent.

She tilted her face up and presented to him her lips, eyes closed, and waited. After a pause she felt him shift, he had probably checked their surroundings with a final glance around, before she felt his burned, twisted lips meet hers. She pressed against him more firmly and held there, but all too soon he pulled away, took her arm once more, and started to lead her back indoors.

She leaned upon him and took small steps to slow their path, but he didn’t seem to mind. She only wanted to prolong their time together as much as she could.

She savored the kiss on their quiet walk. He kissed her much too little in her opinion. But there was naught to be done about it, she was alone in a castle of enemies again. This time it was full of thorns instead of lions, but no less deadly and she could not go around kissing her sheild when she was married to the lord of the castle. Her actions were heavily watched, as were his, and it had truly been a miracle she had become heavy with this child. She was sure it was Sandor’s, though she supposed one could never truly know. She had been with Willas less regularly then and she had lain together with Sandor for only the one time, during a short week when Willas was away.

An illness had swept through Highgarden and though few had succumbed, it had taken the maester and Gavyn, barely eighteen-months, had been very ill. Sansa had been distraught as he worsened every day and Willas had left to travel to Oldtown with as much haste he was afforded in the winter weather. In fact, his journey had been serendipitously short and he came back with a new maester in just over a sennight. But in her despair and distress after a particularly bad day for Gavyn she had been nearly inconsolable, her child on the brink of death, and had been increasingly reckless with her wellbeing until one night, that fateful night, when Sandor had confronted her and they had gotten into the largest fight they’d ever had. How it had devolved into hurried groping and sloppy kisses she would never know, but afterwards, as they’d lain together in her bed, she’d been able to push past her nerves for just a moment and give herself to him, let him take all her burdens.

She had needed it, they both had. A heavy tension had been building between them since they’d arrived at Highgarden. The new restrictions placed on their relationship had chaffed at them both. While they had been traveling from the Vale, she had never let him lie with her as a husband would his wife, but they had slept next to each other, wrapped around each other and Ronnel in the cold winter wilderness, and she had allowed him liberties they both enjoyed when the circumstances allowed. They had become very familiar with each other and their bodies knew each other well. But they had not performed that final act. She had plans after all, an endgame, and those plans couldn’t be ruined by carelessness before she had secured herself a new position.

With him, she had been able to finally let go of herself, and when they had finally come together in that final, sweetest way her walls had come crumbling down. She had sobbed into his shoulder and shared with him all her darkest secrets and thoughts and he his, but after that night, when dawn had come, they knew they could not risk it again. They had parted tenderly, but it had hurt. It had hurt her so much to see him go, to see him turn his back and know it unlikely it was that she would ever be afforded the ability to see him again in the same manner. In fact, she had barely seen him at all until after Willas had returned for nearly a week. She knew he had occupied himself with training in the bailey and looking after Ronnel, but he had purposefully kept his distance from her.

Now, eight months later, with her belly rounded with what she hoped was his child, she ached for them to be alone, truly alone, once more. She nuzzled into his arm once more before they reached the portico and then the hallways of the castle. She felt his muscles tighten momentarily before they released and he opened the heavy door and the stepped back for her to enter.

She did not touch him again, nor even look at him as she brushed back into the world of false fineries and hidden eyes, a hand resting on her swollen belly and her heart clenched tightly around those cherished moments and memories that she would never let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been a while, I know. But school and life catch up sometimes and I'm not usually very inspired to write anyways, I'm more of a reader. But I've had time so I thought I'd put some more into this and I also brushed up the previous chapters for spelling and grammar errors and such. Hope you enjoyed this installment!


	7. Chapter 7

She sat in a cushioned chair by the fireplace in his solar, wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl, her hair undone and hanging down her back. Occasionally she would shift just the slightest, and move her arm enough to rock the crib next to her whenever the child inside started to fuss. But her gaze stayed inevitably fixed on the flames, her face dispassionate and empty.

He watched her from his desk, their solar quiet but for the scratch of his quill when he took his eyes away from his wife to write his missive to the North, the creak of the bassinet, and the soft coos within. He had let the boys in to visit with their mother and sister earlier in the day, but she had been barely more responsive than she was now, and Ronnel and Gavyn had been discouraged and quietened by their mother’s solemn presence. He had ushered them out much sooner than he would have liked, the children sad and the hoped for effect of cheering Sansa unaccomplished.

He contemplated her again. He knew the things he had to say, but he did not know what to say or when to say them. Nothing felt right and he knew that she was only going farther down her spiral the longer he left her in such limbo. But neither did he think saying the things he must eventually say would bring her anywhere out of the dark place she had escaped to.

Willas let out a heavy sigh. He set down his quill and blew on the ink making sure it was fully dried before standing up and stretching his back. He softly, if haltingly, walked over to her and leaned heavily on the back of her chair brushing her hair over one shoulder while baring the other in order to place a delicate kiss on the freshly exposed skin. She stirred to his relief and from his vantage point he saw his daughter was awake and looking at them with the interest of a newborn. He gave a small smile before straightening, taking care his leg and cane were in stable positions before he spoke.

“I’ve finished the missive we will send North and to the other kingdoms to announce her birth and claim. Do you wish to hear it?” She gave a slow and hesitating nod, so he continued and paced around the room as he read, “We are pleased to announce the birth of Torrha Tyrell, hereby acknowledged as Torrha Stark, heiress to the kingdom of the North. In accordance to the marriage contract between her lord father, the Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden, and her lady mother, the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she will be raised in the Tyrell seat of Highgarden until she is of an age that she is old enough to be fostered under the different houses of the North for periods of time yet to be set and with the appropriate protection and company provided by her family. When she is of age to inherit Winterfell and the Kingdom of the North, and has come into her power with the proper authority and imparted knowledge, she will be advised of any marriage proposals or alliances. Until such a time, her lord father and lady mother will postpone any arrangements and make note that should any such proposals come, they come with the knowledge of the fact of the full power, seat, and claim of Torrha Stark to be her own and only her own, her heir to be the heir to the noble Stark line and of Winterfell and the North and not of her husband’s own claim or lands, and of her husband to have no claim on her name, land, or rule.”

Sansa was quiet for the longest time. Finally she swallowed and tried to clear her throat before her voice came out soft, but still cracked. “You haven’t mentioned Mordryn.”

The air from Willas’ lungs exhaled loudly as he turned back to her. “No, I haven’t. And I will not mention him, Sansa. It is not appropriate, nor does it serve any purpose to inform anyone outside of the household about him.”

“They should know. They should grieve. as I do.”

“They shouldn’t, Sansa, and you know why. If the realm knew of Mordryn it would only serve to undermine Torrha’s claim and authority when her time comes. And right now it would only serve to weaken you in the eyes and minds of anyone beyond these walls. You cannot think that it would do anyone any good.”

She only swallowed again and turned her head back to stare into the lit hearth.

Willas sighed once more before shuffling around her chair to face her. When she did not acknowledge him, he went instead to pick up Torrha from her crib. It was a struggle to keep his balance, juggling a swaddled babe and his cane in his hands, but he managed and stepped back a few paces to prop himself against the side of the hearth. He looked into Torrha’s eyes, a light crystal blue they were, a baby’s blue some would say, bound to change shade or darken, but he had a mind that she would keep the color her whole life if he knew her mother any. They were glassy and round and stared at him wide open. Her mouth was a pink pout, a cupid’s bow even, her skin the palest cream he had ever seen and he thought passingly to himself that it must be impossible for Sansa to produce anything but beautiful children. His gaze lifted to the crown of her head, the downy, raven black hair was soft under his stroking fingers.

Willas lifted the babe to his face and breathed in her fresh scent before placing a gentle kiss on her brow and settling her back in his hold. When he looked up, he found Sansa watching him like a hawk jealously guarding her young. She seemed torn, yearning to take the babe into her grasp, but unsure what consequence would befall her if she tore Torrha from his arms.

He huffed in exasperation at her, and took a faltering step towards his wife. She quickly sprung up from her chair and took Torrha from his arms. “I won’t hurt her Sansa. She’s my own daughter.”

She peeked up at him from under her brow, but went back to fussing at the child. In an even softer whisper than she had used in their conversation before she said, “But you know she is not.”

“Yes.” He paused, “Yes, I do. But she is known to the world as my daughter, and I will raise her and love her as my own daughter. Why should I not say that she is my daughter?”

“What are you going to do?” She asked, and he saw her swallow heavily.

He did not respond for a long time. Instead it was his turn to turn and gaze into the fire, into those mysterious dancing depths of heat and light and darkness. After a while he turned back to her, and resolved himself to say now everything that needed to be said, to not put it off for a later or better time for there was no assurance that such a time would come.

“Truly, Sansa, I do not intend to do any great thing, but I will have to do something. My family is upset and suspicious as it is and I know Mordryn and Torrha’s birth have put them on edge. They have their suspicions, but I do not think they will raise them. It was fortuitous Torrha and Mordryn were what we thought was the second child of our marriage. If not for our agreement that our second born would be heir to the North and a Stark first and foremost, regardless of gender, and also unfortunately for Mordryn’s fate to never have drawn a breath, much as I hate to acknowledge it, my family would be much more up in arms. They do not see this betrayal as something to overly concern themselves with, as Torrha will never inherit or threaten their claims, but it is still a betrayal, and if I do not act upon it, the consequences could become much harsher in our future.”

“Would they have hurt Torrha? If Mordryn had not been stillborn?” Sansa swallowed heavily and tightened her arms around her daughter. “She would have been third, and just a Tyrell…Willas, would they have truly acted against her?”

He could not meet her gaze, for truly he could not say, and it shamed him. “I just do not know Sansa.” He paused to form his words. “The upheaval in the realm has been so high and betrayal, ambition, and uncertainty are behind every corner. I do not want to think so badly of my family, for I love them all dearly, but I know from your testimony and my own interactions with them, which have become so much more strained in these past years, that I cannot be such an idealist.”

Another silence fell between them. Both were still, only gazing at the infant between them whose eyes were falling shut, back to sleep and the peaceful land of dreams.

“I must send him away, Sansa.” He watched as her shoulders tensed and her breath hitched. Her nostrils flared and her jaw tensed as she lifted her gaze to meet his. She glared balefully at him while uttering, “He is not yours to send away.”

“To anyone but us he is Sansa. He is my wife’s sworn shield and of dubious character and questionable reputation. Not to mention the recent whispers. You know this.” Another silent pause. “I really must send him away.”

She only jerked her head down and resumed looking at Torrha while biting her lip. He noticed her breathing was becoming more labored. “Sandor is the only thing I have left. I cannot live without him. Please, Willas, please don’t take him away from me.” Her eyes shut abruptly and he saw a tear drop onto the baby’s swaddling.

Her hoarse plea spoke to him, hurt him, too, as he knew it would, but he remained unmoved. He approached her and grasped his cane heavily as he went to his knees before her to better gauge her reaction. “That’s not true, Sansa. You have Ronnel and Gavyn and now Torrha, and you have me, too. I will be here for you, to help you and support you, in any way you need.”

She took a shaky breath and attempted a smile for him as she opened her eyes once more. “I know, I know,” she whispered and it seemed to him she was trying to console him instead of the other way around.

“I meant from my past. He is all I have left, of anyone.”

And as Willas took that in he remembered the recent ravens and felt a fool for not having realized what they would have meant to her more than they did to him. Even in the aftermath of her dramatic and stressful delivery of Mordryn and Torrha, she would have known and understood what the ravens were really saying. That she was the last Stark, the only one left.

News had come from the Wall that the Lord Commander Jon Snow had been killed in a mutinous uprising of the Black Brothers and that the Wall was still undergoing rounds for voting on their new leader. A second raven had arrived within a day from Winterfell, telling of the successful coup to depose the Boltons. It had also born the news that the girl Arya Bolton had been killed in the battle, but that Lord Manderly, the conveyor of these tidings, had his misgivings whether she was truly the second daughter of Eddard Stark. Word of Stannis and other northern threats went unmentioned these days and overall the realm of Westeros had settled its disputes for the season. Willas hadn’t been overly surprised or troubled by the news until now. It had seemed to him incredible that while the rest of the kingdoms had stopped fighting for the nonce, the North had taken up arms within itself and delivered upheavals of such scale while he had been sure they were under ten feet of snow.

Only now he connected the messages and realized what she would get from them. She would not take from them the strategic analysis he had expected of her in planning for her daughter’s claim, instead all she had taken was that the two final members of her childhood family were dead. Suspicions of identity or not, there were no other Stark children alive except his wife. He grasped her upper arms in an attempt to comfort her, but pushed on.

“I must send him away Sansa.” She closed her eyes and fresh tears flowed down her cheeks. He despaired, but knew no other path but the one they must traverse. “Clegane has been drunk for the past month and shows no sign of stopping or slowing. He is disturbing the castle and not attending his post as he should. There is no excuse for his actions. If it were any man but him he would have been tossed outside the walls weeks ago. We cannot sustain him like this, especially during the winter.”

He took stock of her reaction, she seemed resigned. “I will have him do some patrols. Maybe give him some household duties after a few weeks, to get him back in the swing of things, but I don’t think that it will be tolerated for long. If it is admissible to you, I would send him as an envoy, in time, to the North, to try and broker the terms of Torrha’s fostering and to ensure the North is rebuilding despite its recent upheaval and lack of leadership.”

She only gave a nod and her eyes roved Torrha’s features.

“It will be for the best, Sansa.” She nodded again, this time slowly lifting her eyes to meet his.

“You must help me, Willas,” she implored softly, oh so softly.

“Of course,” he reassured her, surprised she needed it said. Surprised she even asked, truth be told, for she was so strong to him. “Of course.” It was worth repeating.

And at that, he pushed himself up, and went back to his desk. Once he was sitting he resumed his position, going over letters and announcements, and occasionally looking up, glad to see that she was still holding Torrha soundly in her arms, even if she was staring into nothingness.


	8. Chapter 8

He looked up at the dais from his far corner of the hall, his heavy gaze hidden by the restless hustle and bustle of servants and men-at-arms and all other manners of men and women here to celebrate at the leaving feast. At dawn, a large party was heading north to start talks with the Northern lords and see the lay of the land in that far-off winter kingdom. They would conclude their journey in the Vale, to settle Ronnel in for his long-promised fostering at the Gates of the Moon. He supposed they would also stop at Riverrun at some point to visit the newly reinstalled Lord Tully and his wife and daughter. Maybe discuss a fostering for Gawyn there, but Sandor knew Lord Tyrrell would prefer for his heir to be fostered in the Reach, probably with his own foster family, his mother’s relations, the Hightowers, in Oldtown. In any case, Gawyn was but six years, he was only joining the long and arduous journey with his father’s men to see his brother’s new kingdom and to see his mother’s land, that would one day be his sister’s kingdom. To see the world beyond what would be his own kingdom. An adventure for everyone involved, it would seem, and in the heart of winter.

His gaze was hungry, but none of the surprisingly generous amounts of dishes being served in this ninth year of winter would sate him. He drank in the vision of his lady, _Sansa_ , with equal amounts of thirst as he did the small doll of a girl to the right of her. He felt as if he was a man just come from the deserts of Dorne and stumbled upon those famed Water Gardens, unsure if what he saw before him was true or if it was too good to be real. Just the mirage of an oasis after being lost to the desert. A foolish thought, he chastised himself, too melodramatic. Here and everywhere in the realm it was cold as could be, still winter. If you were thirsty, you just went out and got a bucket of snow to melt.

Sansa seemed unchanged, though he knew if he were allowed any closer he would see the small signs of time working upon her, marking the years since he had last been granted her presence. Same vibrant red hair, done up and pulled away from her face in braid that came long and rested heavy over her shoulder. Same regal bearing. Same gentle smile, same caring and genuine demeanor. Same light, tinkling laugh that he could hear perfectly in his head and the corners of her mouth lifted up and her head tilted back at something Ronnel seemed to have done to Gawyn on her other side, just past her lord husband, though in reality he was nowhere near enough to hear that delicate sound over the din of the other revelers.

The little cherub at her side grabbed his attention then, her small arms tugging at her mother’s gown for attention, bouncing in her seat. Even from his distance, her perfection caught his breath. Soft, gentle ringlets curled unbound from the girl’s head, nearly to her waist, though she was but a small thing. They were black as night and the contrast to her pale white skin was stark, the red of her lips another shock of color, and her bright blue eyes so bright he could see them from the opposite end of the hall. He could hardly breathe when he looked at her, his heart in his throat, seemingly stopped, frozen in time as his eyes roved and he greedily took in every detail he could.

_Torrha. My daughter, Torrha._

How he wished to scoop her into his arms and breathe in her fresh scent, to make her smile, to hear her giggle. She was still but a toddler, just past her third nameday. A day he had spent shivering miserably in two pairs of breeches and twice as many tunics and doublets and what-have-you against the cold on a month long patrol out in the eastern borderlands of the Reach and the Stormlands. How he longed to hold her just once in his arms, but he knew that door was barred to him as surely as he knew he would never again hold her mother in his arms either.

He clenched his jaw and allowed a pained sort of grunt to escape him as he tore his gaze from them, breathing harshly as he stared in his mug. He shook his head harshly as if it would help him clear his thoughts, still huffing and puffing. It was filled with water, but how he wished he could drown himself in wine. But he knew, even as his gaze lifted back up to the two, he would never again let a drop pass his lips. He would pay the penance required for forgetting himself, for abandoning his little bird in her time of need to sooth his own grief and worries, for allowing them a reason to take him away from her, from them both. It was his own damn fault he was tormented thus, and he would bear it. For her, for both of them. For all of them really. Ronnel and Gawyn too, even Willas, though he held black jealousy in his heart for him, even if it was tempered by gratefulness for being and doing what he himself could not.

He had failed her. And he would do whatever he was bid now, he had no right to do otherwise. He had forsaken them all in a moment of petty personal crisis when he was needed most. And so he would sit here in his corner and take of them what he could, would burn their image on the backs of his eyelids if he could, for he was bound to leave them once again on the morrow.  


End file.
